You Are a Hurricane
by Becks Rylynn
Summary: Laurel Lance does not become a superhero for a man. She does not do it because she is forced to go through her very own 'crucible.' She does it for a girl. You know all those stories about the mothers who can suddenly lift cars off of their children? Yeah, Laurel is that mom. Times ten. Rewrite of season one of Arrow and season eight of Supernatural.


**Title: **_You Are a Hurricane  
_**Fandom(s): **Supernatural, Arrow.  
**Summary: **Laurel Lance does not become a superhero for a man. She does not do it because she is forced to go through her very own 'crucible.' She does it for a girl. You know all those stories about the mothers who can suddenly lift cars off of their children? Yeah, Laurel is that mom. Times ten. Rewrite of season one of Arrow and season eight of Supernatural.  
**Pairing(s): **Dean Winchester/Laurel Lance, Tommy Merlyn/Joanna de la Vega, John Diggle/Felicity Smoak, eventual Helena Bertinelli/Charlie Bradbury, implied Thea Queen/Sin, mentions of past Oliver Queen/Laurel Lance and past Sam Winchester/Amelia Richardson.  
**Genre: **Family/Hurt/Comfort  
**Rating: **Teen  
**Timeline: **Begins in between 1x05 and 1x06 of Arrow and 8x05 and 8x06 of SPN.  
**Spoilers: **Blanket spoilers for all of Supernatural and season one of Arrow.  
**Warnings: **Canon typical violence, anxiety, depression, panic attacks, vomiting, mental health issues, post traumatic stress disorder, alcoholism, sexual situations.  
**Notes: **Title from the poem ''Mouthful of Forevers'' by Clementine von Radics, which I have dubbed THE Dean/Laurel poem.

**Disclaimer:** I own none of the characters you recognize. I own none of the poems or lyrics featured in this story.

* * *

_AN: AND AWAY WE GO!_

_So, here it is. My first (and probably last, if I'm being honest) multi-chapter Dean/Laurel fic._

_This is a Black Canary origin story, yo. One without a poorly written 'crucible' (aren't you getting sick and tired of that word?) and one that doesn't revolve around some rich dude who runs around in a leather suit and face paint shooting people full of arrows. It could also be considered something of an origin story for Dean Winchester. Oh, and also? Birds of Prey. Straight up._

_I don't want to spend a lot of time rambling up here - I'll save that for the end note - so I just want to say to whoever is reading this, thank you for giving this story a chance and I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

**You Are a Hurricane**

_Written by Becks Rylynn_

* * *

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**Part One**

_THIS IS A TORCH SONG_

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_you think i'm not a goddess?  
__try me  
__this is a torch song.  
__touch me and you'll burn.  
_**margaret atwood | helen of troy does counter dancing**

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As a woman living alone in the city, Laurel knows she has a right to protect herself and her home.

She is alone, in the dark, on a stormy night, and she was involved in a prison riot less than a week ago, so when she hears the telltale sound of someone trying to pick the lock on her front door while she's folding laundry in the bedroom, she is understandably put on edge and she reacts accordingly. Instead of running away from the noise and calling 911, or maybe her father, Laurel runs _towards _the noise. She skids to a halt by her door just as the intruder on the other side is beginning to crack it open and there is a surge of unbelievably overwhelming anger and adrenaline that flows through her veins. She lurches forward as soon as she sees a hand appear and she throws all of her weight onto the door, slamming it into the intruder's face and quite possibly breaking a couple fingers.

The intruder shouts in pain and she hears an audible thud, followed by a painfully familiar, ''Son of a bitch!''

Laurel's heart sinks into her stomach and her entire body goes numb for a prolonged moment, torn between frustration and disbelief, and then her brain kicks in. ''Oh, god,'' she grasps the doorknob and throws open the door with wide eyes, and yep. There he is.

Dean Winchester.

Bleeding heavily on the ground, dazed and cradling his hand.

To be honest, yes. There is a part of her that always knew he would come back into her life and complicate it at some point. He left her life so abruptly. Just a phone call telling her he was moving in on Dick Roman. When he never contacted her again, she had thought... She _grieved_ for him. She cried for him. For Sam. For a year, she went through life trying not to think about the fact that he was probably dead, telling herself that he was still out there, saving people, hunting things, and that he hadn't contacted her because he was just letting her go. Or maybe he found someone else. Maybe he was happy. For over a year, some part of her has been waiting for him to call and ask her to bail him out of jail, or show up drunk and injured and in need of help, or even just a booty call. To be even more honest, there's a part of her that's been waiting to call him for a booty call. They've never been great at ending whatever it was that they had. They're backsliders. It's what they do. She _had _been expecting to see him one day, but she had not at all expected their inevitable reunion to go like this.

''Laur,'' he splutters, blood running from his nose into his mouth. ''What the hell?''

She doesn't react to the nickname - the one that only he has ever called her; the one that only he is ever _allowed _to call her - but she does react to the blood. ''Oh my god,'' she drops to her knees beside him. ''Oh my god, you_ idiot_,'' she hisses. ''Are you okay?'' She grabs his face in her hands, despite his protesting, to inspect his nose, and once she deduces that his nose is not broken and neither are his fingers, she shoves at his shoulder. ''What were you thinking? Why would you break into my apartment?''

''I wasn't breaking in,'' he snaps, still trying to stem the bleeding. ''I have a key. It's only eight. And it's Wednesday,'' he licks blood off his upper lip and wipes what's on his hand on his shirt. ''I thought you would still be at work. That's what you _do_.''

A quiet whimper draws Laurel's attention away from Dean and she lifts her eyes, finally, to Sam. Sam looks fine. His hair is a little longer, his body a little leaner, but his soft smile is still sweet and the plaid is still the same. It's the girl that's different. Behind Sam, poking out from behind one of his long legs, a little girl in a pink dress is staring at Dean in terror.

...No, I'm sorry, let me repeat that: A _little girl _in a pink dress is hanging out with the two very large men who are kind of, sort of_ serial killers._

Her eyes are wide, she's shaking terribly, and she looks about a minute away from a full blown meltdown. She looks scared. She looks _wild._ And then, when Dean turns his attention to her and she gets a good look at the blood on his face, her entire face crumbles and Laurel watches in mute horror as her wild eyes shift and turn red in a way that humans' eyes _don't _and she lets out this snarl that is half adorable and half legitimately frightening. Dean's on his feet in a second, hand locking around Laurel's wrist and pulling her up and behind him. He doesn't say anything to the girl, just looks at her very carefully, one hand still keeping Laurel behind him.

And then the littlest monster bursts into tears, burying her face in Sam's pant leg as she lets out loud, gulping sobs.

Dean's reaction is instant. His movements are fluid, like they've been practiced. He's at her side instantly, scooping her up into his arms and letting her cling to him desperately, arms wound around her tiny body protectively. ''It's okay,'' he's quick to say to the trembling girl. ''I'm okay, monkey, everything's fine. She didn't mean to hurt me. She's one of the good guys, okay? She's the best.'' He smiles at her with bloodied teeth and brushes her tears away with the pad of his thumb. ''I promise. Daddy's right here, Emma. Daddy's gotcha.''

Laurel clutches at the doorframe, half afraid she's going to fall over in shock. She can't help but gape at the sight before her: Dean Winchester, hunter extraordinaire, righteous man, perpetually unattached drunk, holding a toddler on his hip and cooing at her like she's the eighth wonder of the world. A child. Dean has a child. Dean has a child who is, quite noticeably, less than human. Laurel honestly has no idea how to process this. Oliver Queen's miraculous return to the land of the living was easier to comprehend. The hooded guy in green leather who runs around shooting people full of_ arrows _makes more sense than this.

Dean looks up at her again and she meets his eyes. He looks apologetic, either for the botched break in or for springing this on her without even a call, but more than that, he looks desperate. He looks so far past desperate. She has never seen that look in his eyes before, and she has seen him at his lowest.

''I need your help,'' he says.

She presses her lips together.

Of course he does.

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_you can break everything  
__but so what?  
__i can take anything  
_**ellie goulding | little dreams**

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The girl's name is Emma, and yes, she is, in fact, Dean Winchester's less than one hundred percent human daughter.

This is irony at its finest.

Emma Winchester is a beautiful girl. Laurel is struck by that the moment she sees her. Emma is this tiny slip of a thing, a small, skinny toddler completely dwarfed by Dean and Sam and their obnoxious tallness, and yet she has them both wrapped around her finger. This is far more adorable than Laurel cares to admit. And she looks like her dad. This is an unavoidable truth. Dean is in every inch of Emma - from her wide eyes to her pink lips to the curve of her nose - and sure, there are bits of someone else mixed in as well - in the very light, fine strawberry blonde hair and the cheekbones - but mostly, she is her daddy's girl.

Considering how close she came to having this life with this man, Laurel doesn't know how to pretend that this doesn't sting just a little. But she does it anyway, and she does it with a smile. She's good at that. She can hide anything with a particularly brilliant smile. She lets the Winchesters into her home, because she was never not going to let them in, and she gets Dean a wet cloth and an ice pack for his nose. This is what she does. This is who she is. She helps the helpless. She does it because she _can. _Because it's the right thing to do. Despite the fact that they are by far the two most dangerous men she knows, something about the Winchester brothers have always fit this criteria.

''Em,'' Dean says, while Laurel is perched on her coffee table, gently wiping the blood away. ''This is Laurel. From the bedtime stories.''

Laurel arches an eyebrow.

''She's the best person I know,'' he says quietly, and maybe he's not talking to Emma anymore.

''She's a superhero,'' Sam adds on, and winks when Laurel turns to throw him a look.

She looks in between them for a brief second, positive that all of these compliments mean that whatever favor they are about to ask of her is a doozy, and then she turns her attention to Emma. She offers the girl a delicate sort of smile and says, ''Hi, Emma. I like your pretty dress.''

Emma's only response to that is to curl into her father's side and bury her face in his shirt, making a small noise of discontent.

''She's, uh...'' Dean clears his throat. ''She's shy.''

''Oh, well, that's okay,'' Laurel's smile never slips. ''I used to be shy too.'' She winks at Emma and then swaps out the warm wet cloth for an ice pack, pressing it against Dean's nose. She winces when he winces and when his hand comes up to take the ice pack, his fingers brush hers and - electricity. One million watts of it.

_Still._

How..._annoying._

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_we have both known loss like the sharp edges  
__of a knife. we have both lived with lips  
__more scar tissue than skin. our love came  
__unannounced in the middle of the night.  
_**clementine von radics | mouthful of forevers**

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It's hard to explain her relationship with Dean.

Laurel is no stranger to complicated relationships with bad boys. This is a slightly embarrassing fact about her taste in men. There was Oliver and their on and off tangle of a relationship and then there was her best friends with benefits situation with Tommy that was really just a distraction from missing Dean for her and a distraction from his deepening crush on Joanna for him, which came out of nowhere and shocked everyone, but no one more than Tommy himself. Complicated, messy relationships... She knows them all too well. But this thing with Dean is in a league of its own.

She met Dean and Sam three months after the Gambit went down, when, in the middle of the dissolution of her parents' marriage, the ghost of their cantankerous old landlord decided to go full on poltergeist on the tenants living in his buildings all over Starling, which lead to her mother revealing the existence of the supernatural, something that did not go over well with her father. Shortly after the ghost, Mr. Lyle, had drowned Mr. Garrett, the nice old man who lived in the townhouse next door, in his sink, Bobby Singer, an old friend of Laurel's mother's, wound up dispatching Dean and Sam Winchester to take care of it quickly and quietly.

And yes, Dean did hit on her the first time he met her. To his credit, when she shut that shit down, he backed right off. He's not the animal her father thinks he is. None of the men in her life are the animals her father thinks they are.

After that, they were reluctant acquaintances at best. She was more of a friend of Sam's than a friend of Dean's, trading barbs with him over the phone occasionally, but saving actual conversations for Sam. She called them once in a while at her mother's request to make sure that they were alive, she called when she had questions about this supernatural life that her mother had been keeping from her, and they called her, the aspiring lawyer when they needed legal advice - which really just consisted of, ''just how illegal is this illegal thing we're about to do?'' They were friends, or_ friendly_, for just over half a year when, suddenly (it wasn't sudden; she knows that now, but back then it felt like a punch to the gut) her mother left. Just got in her car, drove away from Starling City, all the bad memories, and Sara's untouched room, and left not only her marriage in her proverbial dust but her daughter as well. One day she was there and the next day she wasn't.

Laurel coped with this by calling Dean and begging him to come into town ''for a drink.'' At the time, she hadn't been sure why she called Dean, of all people, and not Sam, or Tommy, or Joanna. They weren't close, they didn't converse that much, they barely knew each other. She could barely stand him, to be frank. He was...loud. He drank too much, he laughed too loud, he was sarcastic and rude, he was incredibly rough around the edges, and he reminded her too much of the parts of herself that she refused to allow to rise to the surface because they weren't proper. He didn't fit in with the picture of what she thought her life should look like. And he was always calling her _Laur._ He was the only one who had ever made the decision to call her that and it annoyed her. It annoyed her that it_ didn't _annoy her. But even back then, she had realized that there was a certain sense of understanding and commiseration between her and Dean that she simply didn't have with anyone else. Maybe it was because they were both older siblings. Or maybe it was because they had both been forced to get used to the feeling of being left behind.

He did show up, despite everything going on in his life and despite the fact that they weren't friends, telling her that he couldn't let her drink alone. They went to a bar, some seedy place in The Glades, far enough away from the city that no one she knew would see her there, and he bought her a drink. One drink lead to two which lead to three and eventually, the alcohol and misery on both sides lead to drunken, sloppy, half clothed sex in the back of his car, and later, another round of sweaty, clingy, needy sex back at her place.

It was nice. It was fairly fucked up considering that not only was her state of mind pretty messed up, but so was his. But it was nice to be with someone in that sense again. It was nice not to have to sleep alone. It was not nice, however, to have to wake up alone. Which is precisely what she did. She woke to glaring sunlight, an empty bed and a note that simply read,_ I'm sorry._

She did her best to shrug it off. To tell herself that it wasn't her, that she hadn't done anything wrong, but as days went by and her calls to Dean went ignored, she couldn't help but feel a gnawing worry in her gut. She wasn't worried about whether or not she was good in bed, or if she was just a one night stand for him. She was worried about him. Dean clearly wasn't doing well. He wasn't in the right frame of mind that night. He hadn't been in the right frame of mind the entire time she had known him, chalk full of enough self-loathing to mentally cripple someone who _didn't_ have the weight of the world on their shoulders, with an alcohol dependency to boot. And they had both been drunk. Had she misread the situation? Was she too aggressive? Had she taken advantage of someone who was hurting just to soothe her own pain?

Then, about a week and a half after that night, there was a knock on her door and when she opened it, there was Dean. He looked terrible, worse than she felt, but he also looked determined.

The first thing he said to her? ''I took advantage of you.''

She had cooked up about a hundred reasons for him leaving her, but that had never been one of them.

''I took advantage of you, and I'm sorry,'' he had looked genuinely disgusted with himself. ''I used you. Because I'm an asshole who uses sex and alcohol to dull my own ache. But I never wanted to do that to you. You deserve better than that. Better than me.''

''You - What? No. _No. _You didn't take advantage of me, Dean,'' she said, and then shocked herself by blurting out, ''I didn't call you because I wanted company or comfort. I called you because I wanted to fuck you and because I knew you wanted to fuck me.''

She still can't recall ever seeing Dean as shocked as he was that night when that came out of her mouth. Much to her surprise, he had laughed. He had laughed and told her that she was, ''somethin' else'' and when she tried to apologize, he waved it off and told her there was nothing to apologize for. But when she asked him to come inside for a drink... She remembers the haunted, longing look in his eyes that night. She remembers how _hunted _he looked. And she remembers the speech he gave her, in which he listed all of the reasons why they wouldn't work (''you're barely twenty three, I'm thirty one, you want to be a lawyer, I'm a criminal, your father scares the fucking shit out of me, and you deserve so much better than I could ever give you'') but that he wanted to so badly anyway (''in another life, Laur, you and me... We coulda been amazing'').

''I don't love you,'' he had said.

To which she had responded, ''...Okay?''

''But I could,'' he added. ''Because that's - You - You're the kind of girl a guy falls for. I could fall so damn hard for you, Laurel Lance. I mean_ hard. _Broken bones hard. And I wish, more than anything, that I could have the chance to fall in love with you. But I can't. And telling you this is probably one of the most selfish things I've ever done, but I wanted you to know - I _needed_ you to know. ...That you could make me happy. You could make me happy every single day. ...But,'' he smiled, this unconvincing watery smile, dragging a hand down his tired face, and that was the moment she realized that what he was doing was not just confessing his feelings for her, it was a suicide note. ''...That's not how this is gonna end for me, and I've always known that.''

''Dean,'' her voice had been surprisingly level considering how fast her heart was pounding in her chest. ''Come inside. Please come inside.''

But he hadn't. He had warned her that things were going to get bad, but that he didn't want her to worry because he was ''making arrangements'' for her, and then he had pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek and he was gone.

She didn't think that she would see him again.

Until she did.

A few weeks later, Sam was dead and Dean was on her doorstep, barely coherent and half dead just from the sheer pain of losing his brother - a pain she could relate to - and he asked if he could come inside for a drink.

Laurel let him in.

She is an all or nothing kind of girl - always has been, always will be - and with Dean, it was all in from the start. They were together for over a year and serious from the second he stepped into her apartment, talking marriage within six months and kids within a year, like they were trying to fill spaces or jumpstart what society told them was a normal life. They did things all wrong. They went from a night of casual sex to living together and discussing marriage. They burned red hot. Their relationship was passion and grief and want and brokenness.

For a year, she did her best to make him happy and he did his best to make her happy. And they did. They _were. _They were happy. They were as happy as they could be under the circumstances, which turned out, in the end, to be just short of enough.

Contrary to what most people thought, he did not just love the idea of her and she was not just missing Oliver. They _were_ in love. It would have been impossible not to fall in love. It wasn't all bad. He called her ''pretty bird.'' He made her feel beautiful, made her laugh, made her feel again. She gave him a home, a little slice of peace, a kind of love he hadn't been able to have in a long time. The problem was that they were broken. They were more than broken. They were _annihilated. _They were two unhealthy people trying to patch up their hearts with each other. And it led to an unhealthy level of _need_ and using sex as a way to breathe. There were spaces in their hearts left by Sara and Sam, and it held them back. Which was why they never followed through on marriage or kids.

It wasn't what one would call a healthy relationship, no.

He drank, she worked, they never talked about Sam or Sara, and some nights, they put on these big fake smiles and went out to birthday parties or engagement parties and they would laugh and smile and play the part of the perfect couple so flawlessly that her friends were sure that Dean was The One. (Except Tommy. Tommy never liked Dean, which was understandable because Dean had always been a little surly with Tommy.) But, inevitably, out of the public's line of vision, he would drink too much and she would be on her phone constantly, either with work or her father, and when they got home they would fight about his drinking and her codependent relationship with her father - who, by the way, _hated_ Dean - and it would usually end in angry sex but no resolution to the fight.

They loved each other, yes, but at the time, they loved their vices more.

And then Sam came back. And she knew it was over.

They held on for six more months, with him coming home when he could, and her working and drinking copious amounts of red wine to help her sleep and drown out the loneliness of the empty bed. But they deteriorated like they both knew they would, clinging to the shards of their twisted relationship and seriously considering having kids in some ridiculous attempt to save what was already lost.

Their break up was astoundingly painful. For a relationship that didn't end in death, it hurt more than she ever could have imagined. It was also _long. _It was hours of fighting and crying and screaming and pleading, with both of them going back and forth between wanting to end things and wanting to hold on. At one point, he was down on his knees, holding onto her like she was a life raft and begging her not to leave him. At another, she was leaping over the coffee table, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissing him with more desperation than ever, using sex as a ploy to stop him from walking out the door. Eventually, as the sun was rising, they had come to one final conclusion:

They loved each other, but they couldn't do this anymore.

And that was that.

Except, of course, for the part where they were - and are - both terrible at letting go.

They broke up in November. By February, she was dating again. Or, well, she was trying to. She went on a few botched dates with a colleague who was sweet but too sweet (and an overwhelmingly slobbery kisser) and tried to avoid Joanna setting her up on a blind date. In the meantime, she worked, worked, worked some more, and briefly entertained the idea of getting a pet, but the only pet that would fit in her crazy busy life was a bird and she just wasn't quite ready to become the bird lady just yet. Then, after a downright excruciating Valentine's Day where she drank a bottle of expensive wine all by herself (sans a wine glass) and almost called Dean over a dozen times, she finally accepted Jo's offer to set her up on a blind date.

So, one Friday night, she put on a deep blue dress that was maybe a little too tight, slipped into red heels, perfected her makeup and prepared herself to move on.

Can you guess who was there when she opened the door?

Yep.

_That guy._

Hand poised to knock, Dean's mouth fell open at the sight of her in her blue dress with her dark hair falling down her shoulders in tousled waves. He didn't say anything for a long awkward moment before eventually rasping out a quiet, ''Hi.''

She didn't know what to think. She didn't know why he was there or why. She just knew that she missed him, and that he made her weak. So she said, ''Hi,'' and stepped aside to let him in.

They didn't leave the bedroom until noon the next day.

It was the start of something entirely different. They weren't together, they weren't in any sort of committed relationship, and he came and went whenever he pleased, but she was fine with that. It was about sex. They were friends. They were just friends with a lot of benefits. Laurel would call Dean and tell him that she was lonely and she needed him and he would drop everything and rush to her side. Dean would show up out of the blue, at any given time, and tell her he needed a place to crash and she would let him in, no questions asked, no matter what. Sometimes it was innocent. Sometimes he honestly did just need a place to stay. He and Sam would show up in the middle of the night, weary and annoyed with each other from being cooped up in the car all day long with only each other, Dean would let himself in with his key and Sam would take the couch while Dean would crawl into the king sized bed that he had helped pick out with Laurel like it wasn't the definition of back sliding.

It was, quite possibly, even less healthy than when they were in a relationship. They knew that. They both did. They just couldn't let go. When they were together, it was their vices that had torn them apart. When they were apart, they _became_ each other's vices. They continued along this path, not together but close, for quite a while, until Bobby Singer died.

After Bobby died, Dean withdrew. Dean withdrew from everything. From life. From anything that wasn't revenge. He came around less and less and then stopped showing up altogether. He didn't return any of her calls, he stopped sending her drunk, rambling, surprisingly deep texts, and he became the embodiment of revenge. Just a man with tunnel vision and an obsession with taking down the person who had hurt his family. He became his father.

Laurel tried not to worry. This was what he did. It was his job. As soon as they took down Dick Roman, he would be fine. He would survive this. He always did. He had been doing it his entire life. Besides, maybe it was for the best. Dean Winchester was like a bad habit. He was an addiction for her. Intoxicating, made her feel good, made her blurry, but not good for her. She couldn't wait for him forever. (Bad boys. Hook you every time.)

So she let him go. Or, more accurately, she did her best to pretend that she had let him go.

One day, in May, he called her while she was at work. She saw his name pop up on her screen while she was on her fourth cup of coffee and trying to prep for an upcoming deposition. She paused, fingers hovering over her keyboard, and then she pressed ignore. Later that night, as she was getting ready for bed, she checked her voicemail. It wasn't what she had thought it would be. It wasn't a half drunken booty call. It wasn't an apology. It wasn't an update on the hunt for Dick Roman. It wasn't him asking her for another favor.

It was a goodbye.

He told her that he was going to make the final move against Roman. He told her that he was going to ''gank the bastard.'' He told her that he didn't expect to make it out of this one alive. He told her... He told her that he loved her. He had never said those three words before. Not ever. She knew he did, she wasn't stupid, but she also knew how hard it was for him to say it. That was why, upon hearing the message, she wound up crumpled on her bedroom floor, grasping the bed sheets, not crying but numb. When Dean Winchester said_ I love you _what he really meant was _goodbye._

''I love you, Laurel,'' he said, so confident and sure, no hesitation or anything. ''I love you and I wanted you to know that.'' He laughed, this low throaty chuckle that sounded like something other than a laugh. ''Broken bones and all, pretty bird.'' There was a pause, he cleared his throat and when he spoke again, his voice was tight and slightly unsteady, ''In another life, Laur,'' and that was it. That was all she was left with. A message on her phone from a call she didn't answer, the big empty bed he helped pick out, and _broken bones and all, pretty bird._

She never heard from him again.

Until tonight.

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_you are the ghost in the machine  
__flickering  
_**the fire and the sea | ghost in the machine**

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Now here he is.

Sitting in front of her, skin warm under her fingertips, alive, tired, and with a daughter.

Laurel has so many questions. She wants to know everything. Where he was, how he survived, why he never contacted her, all about Emma and how she came to be, who her mother is, what's going on, why he needs her help, if he _meant _it. If he meant what he said on that message. She needs answers. She needs something. Laurel doesn't ask any of these questions. Not right away. She just asks them if they're hungry and orders two large pizzas from Mario's.

Emma doesn't leave her father's side the entire time, which is probably another reason why they don't immediately launch into the story. She is like an extension of Dean. If she's not holding his hand or clutching his arm then she's sitting on his lap, burrowing into his chest.

They get through pizza, tiptoeing around most subjects, like Emma's existence or the mysterious favor. Sam and Laurel do most of the talking while Dean cuts up Emma's pizza for her and tickles her, calling her ''monkey'' and pressing noisy kisses to her cheeks to make her laugh. It's one of the most awkward dinners she has ever had to sit through, second only to when Oliver met her parents for the first time. She tells them about work, but carefully avoids stories like Martin Sommers, defending Oliver Queen or almost getting strangled to death in a prison riot. Sam tells her about Amelia, the woman he fell in love with, the woman who probably saved his life, although she's fairly certain she's getting an abridged version of their break up. Dean tells her about where he was for the whole year and about why he didn't call to let her know he was alive. Dean tells her about _Purgatory_. It sounds decidedly worse than a break up. After the shock wears off, she starts thinking about him having to wade through all of the monsters he killed to find Cas, and she loses her appetite. And he keeps _apologizing_ to her, over and over again, for everything.

Something has changed in Dean, and she's not entirely sure it's just because he became a dad.

There is no question about their lodgings for the night. She assumes, even before they ask, that they'll be staying here. Where else would they go? She wouldn't dream of them dragging their tired selves to some seedy motel in The Glades with a toddler. Shortly after the leftover pizza has been put away and she has been shooed away from cleaning up, she excuses herself to go tidy up her bedroom. Which is actually just code for have a mini panic attack about everything that is currently happening in her life. Because there is so much happening in her life right now. There is too much. She collapses on the edge of her bed and leans her elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Her breaths are coming in short, uneven gasps, and she can't calm her racing heart. She pushes a hand through her hair and closes her eyes until her breathing returns to normal.

She tosses dirty clothes into the hamper, puts away the shoes that are strewn all over the floor, and pulls out some extra pillows and blankets. She doesn't have an extra bed, or even an extra room, so Emma will have to sleep with her and Dean, and poor, inordinately tall Sam will be stuck on the couch but there isn't really any other option. When she finally makes her way back into the living room, Emma has fallen asleep on the couch and Dean and Sam are having a whisper argument, complete with emphatic hand gestures.

''Okay,'' Laurel crosses her arms and stands as tall as she possibly can. ''Tell me,'' she breathes, already exhausted with this upcoming conversation. ''Tell me what you need.''

Dean suddenly can't look her in the eye, drifting away from her and rubbing the back of his neck. He sits down on the coffee table and stares at his sleeping daughter. He doesn't look well. His hooded eyes are lined with red, probably from lack of sleep and he looks like he's in constant discomfort.

Sam blows out a breath, dragging both hands through his hair. ''It's crazy,'' he tells her. ''And it is _not_ fair.''

Dean turns his head slightly, lip curling and nostrils flaring in some sort of aborted snarl that would be mildly intimidating if it weren't for the completely defeated look in his eyes. He rubs his hands together and ducks his head, licking his lips slowly.

''This isn't just a favor,'' Sam goes on. ''This is - He's about to ask everythingof you. I told him - ''

''And I told you that I don't have a choice,'' Dean spits out, turning on his brother. ''Can you think of somethin' else, Sammy? Do we have another option?''

Sam rears back. He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it abruptly. ''No,'' he says softly, regretfully. ''We don't.''

''All right,'' Laurel moves forward, eyes on Dean. ''Just calm down,'' she cuts her eyes to Sam. ''Both of you. Tell me what's going on.''

''I need you,'' Dean says and then pauses and squeezes his eyes shut, barely noticeable grimace passing across his face. He still won't look at her. ''I need you to look after Emma.''

A shiver runs down her spine at the request. She blames it on the rain pouring down outside. ''Okay,'' she says slowly, evenly, looking between the boys. ''Um, for how long?''

Dean lifts his eyes to hers. Her back straightens and tenses. He holds her gaze for a long, painful moment and then he tears his gaze away with an exhale of breath, leaning in to his sleeping daughter to kiss the side of her head. Laurel's lips part in shock. Something is caught in her throat.

_Oh._

She doesn't even let him get the words out. ''No,'' she shakes her head furiously, anger stirring in her gut. ''No, no, no. Tell me you're not asking what I think you're asking me.''

Dean stands, hurrying around the couch, but she backs away from him, holding up a hand and he stops in his tracks. ''Laur,'' he tries.

''Tell me you are not asking me to raise your child,'' her voice is shaking, that's how angry she is, hands balled into fists. She is absolutely livid.

''Just let me explain,'' he tries, but she talks right over him.

''Please tell me you are _not_ that guy,'' she bites out. The following silence is answer enough. ''Oh my god,'' a stunned, bitter laugh falls out of her lips and she can't even look at him. ''You bastard.''

''I can't,'' he seems to choke on his words, struggling just to get them out, looking pale and awkward. ''I can't raise her, Laurel.''

''No,'' she whirls back around to face him, voice like steel. ''You don't get to make that decision, Dean. Not now. That's not how parenthood works. You can't just walk away. You don't get to. You don't get to bail when things get hard.''

Dean's facial expression morphs from desperate and ashamed to anger and indignation in the span of about two seconds. ''You think that's what this is?'' His voice starts out low, something halfway between a growl and a hiss, but rises with each word he says. ''You think I'm doing this because she had a tantrum in some fucking Wal-Mart?! I am doing this because my life is going to get her killed! My car doesn't even have seatbelts!''

Laurel doesn't back down, striding right over him and practically standing on her tip toes to glare at him. ''Maybe you should have thought about that before you got someone pregnant.''

''Whoa, okay, guys,'' Sam makes an attempt to move in between them and stop the fight, but he is pretty much ignored.

''I didn't have a choice!'' Dean shouts, eyes flashing. ''Her mother used me! Her mother used my body to get pregnant like we were fucking animals breeding! I didn't know she was doing it! I didn't give my consent! I love her, okay, I love my daughter, but I didn't ask for any of this! And neither did she.''

As if on cue, Emma starts crying when she is, inevitably, woken by all the yelling. It starts out as aggravated whimpers and then grows into pissed off screeches. Dean moves fast, but Sam still manages to get there first, pointing a warning finger at Dean and snapping out a, ''No. Don't.'' With a glare directed at both Dean and Laurel, he bends down to scoop his niece into his arms, murmuring out a soft, ''C'mon, baby.''

Laurel feels a wave of guilt, eyes cast downwards, one hand massaging the back of her neck. There is an ache in her throat, not from tears, but from frustration and disbelief.

''Emma and I,'' Sam announces, ''are going into the bedroom. You two work this out and do it quietly.'' He sends them both another look and then he's gone, and they're left only in silence.

Laurel feels horrible for Dean. She really does. How could she not? His body was used for breeding purposes against his will and now he's kind of stuck. That's not okay. That's a violation. But this is _insane. _He's asking her to raise his child. His inhuman child. In Starling City. As a single parent. That's not fair. That's not fair to her and it certainly isn't fair to Emma, who clearly worships the ground her dad walks on. Laurel swallows hard against the lump in her throat and just...looks at him. He's different. He looks different. It's like... It's like some part of him was broken at some point and when it healed, it healed all wrong. And she isn't talking about a broken bone. She shakes her head and can't help but ask, ''What the hell happened, Dean?''

He looks slightly taken aback by the question. He blinks and then laughs, angling his body away from her and scrubbing a hand over his face. ''What happened,'' he repeats thickly. He looks at the ground, one hand curling into a fist, and then he looks up at the ceiling, breathing a few ragged breaths. ''I met a girl in a bar,'' he deadpans, ''and now I'm being punished.''

She presses her lips together. ''You believe your daughter is a punishment?''

''No,'' he denies vehemently, bringing his attention back to her. ''Never. My daughter...'' He shakes his head, lips quirking up into a brief smile at the mere thought of his little girl. ''Emma is a gift. The punishment is that no matter what I do, no matter which road I go down here, I will end up losing her.''

She doesn't know what to say to that. Her first instinct is to assure him that everything will be fine. Her first instinct is to assure him that he can do this, but there's no proof he can. Not in this life. She knows his life. She knows the dangers and the risks. There was a time in her life where she thought about those risks, those endless tragic possibilities, every single day. She knows that there is no way a child could realistically fit into it.

''I thought I could do it, you know,'' Dean smiles at her, this achingly melancholic smile that looks like more of a grimace. ''When we got back from Purgatory, I was just so...relieved that she made it back with me - ''

Laurel's head snaps up. Wait, what?

'' - that I was determined to do both. Be a hunter and be a dad. I mean,'' he looks in the direction of the bedroom. ''That's my girl. That's _my baby. _But I...'' He shakes his head. ''All I'm doing is putting her in danger. I can't keep doing this. I can't raise her in this life, I can't raise her to be me, and I can't leave. Not now. Not when we're so close. And I can't give her up.'' He shrugs helplessly. ''I can't just hand her over to... To what? Social services? Some - Some orphanage? She's not human, Laurel. I've got no good choices here.'' He moves back over to the couch and sinks down onto his, head in his hands. ''I got no good choices.''

Laurel takes a seat next to him and brings her hand to his knee. He lifts his head at the unexpected contact and peers at her questioningly. ''Dean,'' she says softly. ''I think you need to tell me more about what's going on.''

So he does. He tells her about the Word of God tablets, about how they took down Dick Roman, about Kevin Tran, the teenage Prophet of the Lord. He tells her that Kevin thinks he has found a way to close the Gates of Hell for good, which would send all the earthbound demons back to hell and prevent any others from crawling their way out. Which would mean _retirement. _He tells her all about Emma and how she is an Amazon, part of a tribe that raised her to kill. He tells her how Emma was three days old when she died; a teenager within days, brainwashed to kill her father, and she probably would have succeeded had Sam not gotten there in time. He tells her about being stuck in Purgatory, about finding Emma, meeting Benny, and reuniting with Cas only to lose him again. Dean tells Laurel _everything._ Everything that's happened to him, everything that will happen, everything that could happen, and she is left reeling, unsure how to handle any of this.

She has always been out of her depth when it comes to his life. She is not a hunter. She is Starling City and CNRI and the law. She is not monsters and magic and Heaven and Hell and all of this crap Dean and Sam have had to wade through daily since they were kids. Her life is normal. Their life reminds her of a comic book. And life should not be a comic book.

The one thing she knows for sure is that Dean Winchester is convincing. He is also not the only one with no good choices here.

She wrings her hands in her lap and stares straight ahead, eyes finding the blank television screen and their reflections in the glass. ''Tell me more about finding Emma,'' she says, proud that she manages to sound only slightly numb and shell shocked.

He doesn't, not right away. He looks at her carefully, this little, worried frown on his face, like he's afraid he's scared her, which - well - _Jesus_. Little too late for that. Finally, he clears his throat and starts talking. ''When I found her in Purgatory, she was a baby. Just this tiny thing covered in leaves and dirt. I almost stepped on her,'' he huffs out a breath of forced laughter and she feels a wave of horror at the thought of a helpless infant trapped in a land of monsters.

''How did she...?'' She trails off, biting down hard on her bottom lip. ''I mean, before you found her... How did she...?''

''Survive?'' He glances at her. ''A pack of werewolves had taken her in. I don't know why and I don't really want to. When I found her, I was encroaching on their territory. They had left her behind to hunt. She was just lying there, blowing bubbles, totally content. If she hadn't made a noise, I wouldn't have even known she was there. And I knew it was her. I don't know how, I can't explain it, I just knew. And I knew I had to keep her safe. She was my responsibility. I had failed her once, I wasn't about to do it again. Monster or not, that's my kid.''

Laurel has to admit that she admires the conviction in his voice. His eyes sparkle when he talks about his daughter. He's good at this. He's far better than he thinks he is.

''So I made a deal with the wolf pack. They were surprisingly friendly for werewolves. I got my daughter as long as I got her out and as long as I delivered a message to their remaining pack members on the other side.'' He stops, pulling his eyes away from her. He frowns in the direction of the bedroom, no doubt desperate to get back to his daughter. ''When Cas saw her,'' he inhales and looks back at her. ''He told me that she had reverted back to what was natural. To how she should have looked when she died.''

''How did you survive that for an entire year?''

''Well,'' he says with a half hearted shrug. ''I had to get her out.''

''And yourself.''

He looks startled. ''What?''

''You had to get yourself out, too,'' she reminds him.

He nods, bobbing his head up and down like he had actually thought about himself, when they both know he hadn't. He hadn't thought about himself for a long time. ''Right,'' he says dully. ''We weren't even sure she would make it through the portal,'' he confesses. ''She's not human. Not technically. In Purgatory, that was glaringly obvious. Her eyes... They were never human there. And she - she didn't have any remains to go back to like Benny. I...'' He lets out this long, slow, guilty sounding breath. ''We burned her bones. ...I even had a plan for what I would do if she didn't make it through. How to get back to Purgatory. How to get back to her. I wasn't going to leave her alone again. I couldn't.''

''But she made it through,'' Laurel states needlessly, dancing around the subject of Castiel, who hadn't made it through and whose absence is evident on Dean's weary face, in the lines around his eyes. The loss covers him like vines, crawling up from his chest to his neck all the way to his forehead.

''She made it through,'' Dean echoes. ''I don't know how. Maybe because she's half human? I don't really want to question it, you know? When we went through the portal, I had her in my arms. She was sleeping, if you can believe that,'' he laughs then, short and sharp, but genuine.

She smiles weakly and her fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and touch him.

''She was such a sleepy baby,'' he says. ''Slept through a lot of bad shit in Purgatory. I remember she - she woke up right as we were going through and she started screaming. It was the last thing I heard. Her crying.''

She has no idea what she can possibly say to comfort him.

''I must've lost consciousness somewhere along the line because I woke up in some forest in Maine,'' he continues. ''I was a little out of it, but the first thing I noticed was that I couldn't hear her crying.'' He pinches his lips together tightly for a brief moment. ''I thought - I assumed she hadn't made it through. But then I heard this - this whimper. She had crawled into the bushes. She was...filthy and shaking like a leaf, just completely scared out of her mind. But she was here. With me.''

Laurel smiles weakly. Without thinking, she reaches over and grabs his hand, tangling her fingers through his. ''I'm glad.''

''She doesn't remember her first life,'' he tells her, eyes firmly on their entwined fingers. ''She doesn't remember dying, or anything that the Amazons taught her. She remembers Purgatory.''

''Dean - ''

''She'll be two on February 3rd,'' he whispers. ''She's small for her age, because of malnutrition. She can walk - and climb; she's a climber - but she can't talk. She eats, but barely and she can't do it herself. She has nightmares. And she doesn't trust easily. She's...'' He grimaces. ''She's traumatized.''

Laurel's reaction to that and the wrecked look on his face is an immediate and emphatic, ''That's not your fault.''

He shrugs and pulls his hand away from hers. ''Isn't it? I mean, I killed her, didn't I?'' The casual way he says this would be disturbingly unfeeling if it weren't for the way he pales as soon as the words are out. ''I may not have pulled the trigger, but I killed her. I did exactly what my father would have done. I let my kid die because she was different.'' He pushes a hand through his hair and can't look her in the eye. ''What kind of a man does that make me?''

She sighs. ''You are not your father, Dean.''

In response to that, he stands, so abruptly it makes her jump. He doesn't say a word to her, just starts pacing. She follows his every move and tries to come up with something to say. Usually, she can find words when no one else can. She's a lawyer. Words are her job. But with Dean... Well. He has always been amazing at making her speechless. ''What were you supposed to do?'' She asks eventually. ''She was brainwashed. She was going to kill you. Tell me, Dean, what could you have done?''

''I could have saved her.''

''You can't save everybody.''

He stops pacing. ''I could have let her go. But I didn't. And that's just the beginning of how absolutely _wrong_ this is. Me raising a kid,'' he scoffs. ''This is why I never even thought about having kids. Having a traumatized little kid in the backseat, bouncing from town to town, from shitty motel to shitty motel, raising her like I was raised...'' He swallows hard. She can't help but notice how he looks physically sick. ''I will break her apart,'' he says, and then exhales, like this is the first time he has ever said that out loud. She looks down and away and she can't tell him he's wrong. ''I will break her apart like my father broke me apart and I can't - I _won't _- let my child go through what I went through. What_ Sammy _went through. And you...''

She looks up sharply.

''You're perfect.''

She clears her throat awkwardly and rises to her feet to move behind the couch. ''I am so far from perfect,'' she mumbles nervously.

''You're perfect for her,'' he elaborates. ''You'd be so good to her, Laur. I know you would. You'd be amazing.''

She folds her arms over her middle as if to protect herself, but even she has no idea what she's protecting herself from. ''You're her dad.''

His lips thin. ''I am the guy who is responsible for her trauma and I'm in the middle of a demon war.''

She closes her eyes and breathes out. How is this her life? How can this possibly be her life?

''Laurel,'' she hears him say. ''You want kids. You've always wanted kids.''

''Yes, but I want it to be my choice,'' she snaps.

Dean moves around the couch quickly, coming to a stop inches away from her. She feels like she should move away from him. She feels like him touching her would be just another manipulation tool. But she can't. She feels rooted to the ground. There is some part of her that is waiting to be manipulated. There is some part of her that_ wants _to be manipulated. She wants him to talk her into this. She wants him to _convince_ her. There is a part of her, the one she tries to stifle, the one she doesn't have time for, that wants this. How ridiculous is that? ''Laur, please,'' Dean's warm hands move to her wrists, holding on loosely. ''I'm begging you. I'm ready to get down on my knees here,'' he sounds shaky. ''You're my only option. I need you to help her.''

Her lips part but nothing slips through them. His eyes are burning holes into her, frantic and pleading. He won't let her look away. The instinct, the sane, rational thing to do would be to say no. It's what makes sense. It's the easy answer. Except that everyone knows the rational, easy answer isn't always the right answer. She can't bring herself to say no, but she can't bring herself to say yes either. She has an established life here in this city. She has a legal aid office to run and being a mom - especially to a traumatized child - requires time that she doesn't have. There are depositions to prep, clients to help, cases to build, trials to run, and dirtbags to take down. Justice never sleeps and honestly, neither does Laurel Lance. She doesn't have time for this. She would have to take time off work and maternity leaves take time to process. If she was adopting, she would have had to have put in notice. If she had been pregnant, people would have known. What could she tell people? That she has a secret kid? That she adopted without telling anyone? That she had one of those 'I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant' situations, gave birth on the toilet and was too embarrassed to tell anyone?

And her father. Oh, god._ Her father_. He would freak. He would rant and rave and stomp around cursing Dean's name and berating her for letting that ''lousy bastard'' back into her life. Most likely it would probably go like this: ''THAT GOOD FOR NOTHING SNAKE WALTZES BACK INTO YOUR LIFE WHEN HE NEEDS SOMETHING AND THINKS HE CAN TAKE ADVANTAGE OF MY LITTLE GIRL?! I'LL SHOW THAT LOWLIFE WHERE TO GO!'' Followed by him arresting Dean for, like, loitering or something.

Laurel would very much like to avoid that.

There would be so many questions. There would be too many questions. Questions she wouldn't be able to answer. Also, FYI, _none of this is legal and she is a lawyer._ She wants kids. She does. She has never made that a secret. She just doesn't want kids like this.

''I...'' She tears her eyes away from his with some difficulty and swallows down the regret that is already rising in her throat like bile. ''Dean...''

His entire body deflates, sagging in defeat, shoulders drooping. Something bitter and sad clouds over in his eyes. Disappointment, definitely, but something else as well. Something very close to shame. She watches his jaw tick and his eyes flutter shut and she waits, on baited breath, for the anger and the hurt. It never comes. Dean doesn't yell or try to guilt trip her. He doesn't say much of anything. The silence between them is deafening. It's painful and awkward and neither one of them seem to know what to do with it or what to say next. She wants to help him. How could she not? She just doesn't know how.

After a long moment, she prompts, ''Dean.''

He lets out a long slow breath and says, quietly, ''You're right.''

She exhales. ''I'm sorry.''

''No,'' he shakes his head and offers her a watery smile, running a hand over his face. ''No, don't be sorry. You're right. You - I shouldn't have...'' He turns away from her and she follows his movements with her eyes, watching him collapse back onto the couch. ''This isn't fair to you. We shouldn't even be here. I just...'' There is a second, just a second, where he looks like he's going to fall apart. There is a second where his breathing speeds up and his eyes glaze over where she thinks he might break into a million pieces. But he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. He would never allow himself to crumple under the weight in front of anyone. No, he does that when he's alone.

Dean clenches his jaw and she sees him swallow, hears him choke, like he's swallowed a rock. ''I don't know what to do,'' is the whispered confession, so full of shame and anger that it sounds like a mere hiss. He looks down at his hands and frowns at them. ''I won't ask you to do this for me, I won't,'' he looks up at her. ''But could you...'' He makes this strained gasping noise that she recognizes. ''Could you please tell me what to do here? You're the best person I know. I need you to tell me what to do for her,'' he's babbling, talking quickly, quicker than normal, and the way his eyes are going in and out of focus is extremely worrying. ''Tell me what to do,'' and now he's wheezing, ''and I'll do it.''

She doesn't tell him what to do. She is far more concerned with the panic attack that he is currently having.

Laurel has a history of panic attacks. She's had them for five years now. Ever since the day Moira Queen walked into her house and told her and her father that Sara was on the boat. They don't happen often anymore, not like that first year, but every now and then one will creep up on her and knock her off her feet. When she has a panic attack, she needs to be alone and she needs to not be touched. They're awful and the first few times they happened, before her therapist told her what they were, they were humiliating.

Dean's panic attacks are worse. She hesitates to use the word _worse_ because these things affect people in different ways, but... Laurel gets knocked down by her panic attacks. Dean gets flattened by his. Her symptoms are extremely emotional. His are more physical. The difference is that Dean has been having these attacks since he was twelve years old, hiding them, and not getting the help he needs. He didn't even know what they were until Laurel found him on the bedroom floor a few days after Sam's death, sweating through his shirt and clutching his chest. She thought he was having a heart attack.

When Dean has a panic attack, he needs an anchor. He needs physical contact and to be with someone. Maybe the reason they have gotten so bad is because he never has anyone to keep him from that edge.

Laurel moves swiftly, biting back a startled curse, folding herself down onto the couch. ''Dean,'' her voice is firm and her hands are steady on his face, cupping his cheeks. She practically crawls into his lap, pressing her body close to his. ''Dean,'' she says again. There is a faint tremble beneath her and a noise low in his throat, something caught between a whimper and a gasp, but he's trying. She can tell that much. He's trying to breathe, gasping and gulping, and he's trying to pull himself together, probably more out of embarrassment than anything else. ''You're okay,'' she tells him, and presses her forehead to his. ''You're here,'' it comes out sounding like a plea. ''You're here with me.'' His fingers grasp her arms, the soft fabric of her shirt clenched in his fists, and his eyes are squeezed shut. ''Breathe with me, Dean.''

And he does.

It takes a minute or two and he still sounds ragged, even as the tension begins to drain out of his body. She doesn't move for what feels like a long time and neither does he; they just sit there, her hands still on his face, his hands coming to rest on her hips, sharing breaths and not speaking. He looks jittery when she does eventually pull away, hands shaking, eyes darting around wildly, but at least he's breathing properly. Dean looks, for lack of a better word, mortified. He shouldn't, really. It's not like he can help it. Panic isn't something to be ashamed of. But Dean has always kept his weaknesses locked away like dirty little secrets. She wouldn't be shocked if even Sam was completely unaware of the existence of Dean's panic attacks.

Laurel falls back onto her knees on the couch and watches him struggle for control. He blinks rapidly and clears his throat, turning his head to look at anything but her. ''How long has it been since you had - ''

''A while,'' is the short answer. ''Purgatory.''

She nods, but doesn't say anything. There isn't anything to say. She settles herself on the couch next to him and moistens her lips slowly. ''You know,'' her voice is a rasp. ''What you said about never thinking about having kids. It...It wasn't completely true.'' She can feel him stiffen beside her. ''You did think about it,'' she goes on. ''We both did. We were seriously thinking about trying for a baby. Remember?''

He clears his throat again, and finally looks back at her. ''I remember we were damn fools.''

She laughs, and somehow manages to make it sound only a little bitter. ''No argument here.'' She loops her arm through his and cautiously rests her chin on his shoulder. He's still vibrating ever so slightly, so she runs her hands up and down his arm in what she hopes is a soothing manner. He tilts his head back, eyes to the ceiling.

In the quiet, Laurel thinks of Emma. She thinks about what her life will be like if she remains in Dean's care. Dean loves Emma. That has been made clear. Dean loves Emma so incredibly that he would give her up just to give her her best shot. Dean is also trying to banish every demon from earth and is most likely Hell's Public Enemy Number One. Emma will live in bloodshed and battlefields if she stays with her dad. She will live in bruises and loss. Amazon or not, the poor girl isn't even two years old yet. Her life has barely started. She can't live with the constant threat of death hanging over her head. Dean can't live with that. The distraction will get him killed. He will be slaughtered like an animal because he will be too busy worrying about Emma. And Laurel... Laurel could... Oh, god.

Oh, _shit._

Laurel's_ fucking life though._

She draws in a breath and presses a soft kiss to Dean's shoulder, resting her forehead against it. Dean's response is instant, turning his head and burying his face in her hair. He releases a shaky breath. She takes his hand again. She allows herself a selfish moment of this closeness, and then she raises her head. ''I'm not ready for this,'' she says. ''I'm not ready to raise a child.''

He nods. ''I know.''

''But neither are you.'' It's a statement, not an accusation, but she still winces at the harshness of it. ''You're even less equipped than I am.''

He goes still.

Laurel has absolutely no idea what she's doing. She is willing to admit that. Dean's mouth falls open like he wants to say something but can't figure out if he wants to object or thank her for what she is about to do. His eyes are wide with shock. She doesn't stop to think about what she's doing. She just plows on. ''I'll need to know more about her,'' she says firmly, rising to her feet. ''You have to stick around for a few days at least. Help me get to know her. Help her get settled.''

Dean stands slowly and cautiously tries to approach her, but she dodges his outstretched hand and begins to pace, mind racing. There is so much that needs to be done. ''And you have to be a presence in her life,'' she orders. ''Not an absence. I realize that you can't raise her right now. I know it's not safe. But she still needs you and you still need her. When a child...'' She stops. Starts again. ''When a parent _chooses_ to walk away from their child, it hurts. It doesn't stop hurting. No matter how old the child is. Whether they're two or twenty three,'' she locks eyes with him, ''or twenty six. It's like a wound that just keeps bleeding. It never heals.'' This is something they both know. Her mother's absence stretches and twists in the silence that Laurel is left alone with at night, her father is a ghost; a shell of the man he used to be, and Dean's father... There are no words for what John Winchester did to his children. ''I - I don't care how you do it, but you _will_ find a way to be in her life. Skype, visits, phone calls so she can hear your voice, whatever. Just be her dad. Be her dad from a distance, but be her dad. Maybe it will even help you. To know that she's okay.''

''Laurel,'' he tries.

She doesn't let him get farther than that. ''I'll have to tell my dad the truth, you know that, but everyone else I think I can handle. I try to be as fiercely private as I can at work. It shouldn't be too hard to convince people that I've adopted. I'll tell them that it's been in the works for a while but I didn't want to jinx it. Tommy and Joanna will be harder to convince and they'll be hurt that I didn't tell them, but I can handle it. It'll scare the pants off of Oliver for about twenty seconds,'' she laughs, ''which I guess will be an added bonus.''

''Laurel - ''

''Does she have a birth certificate?'' She asks, bulldozing over whatever he was going to say. ''There is no way for this to be completely legal, but I'll do the best I can. You want people to believe she's my daughter and my daughter alone, right? She can't be Emma Winchester anymore. She'll have to be Emma Lance.''

''Laurel - ''

''And you have to come back.'' It comes out in a gasp and Dean tenses at the sound of it. She squares her shoulders, looks him dead in the eye and says, ''You have something to live for now, Dean. So you have to live. Do it for her. Am I making myself clear? When this is over, when you've done what you need to do, you come back here and you start fresh with your daughter. I believe you're a good man. Better than my father thinks you are, better than your father was, and much, much better than you think you are.'' She swallows and pretends not to flinch when he does. ''This is the part where you prove that.'' She stops, standing tall, swallowing hard, and stares straight at him. She folds her arms over her chest. ''Those are my conditions. Let me know if they're acceptable.''

He snaps out of his shock induced paralysis and steps forward, bringing his hands to her shoulders. ''Laurel,'' he mumbles. She peers up into his eyes and does not falter even once. He's looking at her in something akin to awe now. You know, she's never quite understood why men look at her like that. One of these days, she's going to fall off that pedestal they keep putting her up on. ''Just - Just stop for a second,'' he says breathlessly. He's searching her eyes for any sort of hesitation or regret, any sign that she is not serious about this. He won't find any. She feels oddly calm about this. ''Are you sure about this?'' He asks, and she laughs.

What a ridiculous question.

''No,'' she responds, bluntly. ''I'm not. Not at all. But I'm going to do it anyway.'' She stands up on her tiptoes, inches away from his lips. ''And you knew that I would. Don't pretend you didn't. The second I popped into your head, you knew that I would agree to this. That's why you came here, isn't it?''

For the first time since arriving, Dean smirks. Just a little. Barely a ghost on his lips. But it's there. He tilts his head to the side and leans down a little, until he's close, too close. He says, again, twinkle in his eye, ''You're the best person I know.''

She places one hand against his chest, pushing him away, and draws back. Her lips curl back into a smile. ''You're damn straight I am.''

.

.

.

_the fact is you're a shocking wreck.  
__do you hear me.  
__you aren't all alone.  
_**franz wright | alcohol**

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.

.

When Laurel walks into her bedroom, the first thing she sees is Emma. Sam is sitting at her desk and Laurel is vaguely aware that he's doing something with her computer and maybe she should be worried that there might be things he shouldn't see on there, things to do with her cases, but she can't bring herself to think too hard about it because _Emma._ The toddler is fast asleep in the big bed, curled up in a ball under the covers, hugging a pillow. She's frowning even in her sleep. She looks so tiny. She looks _helpless. _When Laurel sees her, her breath catches and there is a sudden flood of _oh god, what am I doing _panicked thoughts. She stubbornly pushes them away.

''Your computer had a virus,'' Sam deadpans, closing the laptop. ''Did you know that? I fixed it for you.''

She nods weakly and sits down on the edge of the bed, eyes still locked on Emma.

''You should probably upgrade your anti-virus software. And maybe stop clicking on celebrity sex tape links,'' Sam jokes. ''I know you like Chris Evans but really, Laurel?''

Her attempts to smile go horribly wrong.

He sobers instantly at the failed smile and stands. ''You said yes, didn't you?''

''Are you surprised?''

''...Not particularly.''

''Sam,'' she says, and then stops. She allows herself to let out a tired sigh and forces herself to tear her eyes away from Emma. ''I trust you to be honest with me,'' she says, and doesn't miss the way his lips press together. ''Always. I need that right now.''

He nods slowly. ''You got it.''

Laurel glances at Emma gain. ''Dean is her father,'' she says. ''It's his responsibility to give her the best life he can possibly give her. And I need you to tell me, is that with me? Am I the only option?''

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully and looks from her to Emma. ''Honestly? You're not the only option,'' he admits finally. ''You never were. Truth is, we could have taken her to Jody Mills. We could have taken her to Missouri Mosely. But you... You're the _best_ option, Laurel. Your patience, your kindness, your ruthlessness when it comes to protecting the people you love... Emma needs that. She needs _you_.''

At that, Laurel does smile. ''Okay,'' she says. And that's that. She looks back at Emma. Wisps of light red hair are falling in her face, rustling every time she breathes out. Every once in a while, her little fingers will clench and unclench around the pillow. Her breathing is even. Peaceful. She's a gorgeous girl. And now she's Laurel's. ''Okay,'' she repeats, reaching out to stroke Emma's hair cautiously. The girl doesn't even stir. Laurel has to swallow. ''I'm a mom.''

Sam says, ''Mazel tov.''

.

.

.

Laurel is so beyond exhausted.

By the time she and Dean retire to the bedroom, it's nearly two thirty in the morning. They have spent the past hour and a half talking about how things are going to go down, with Dean and Sam telling her important need to know things about Emma, and Laurel meticulously planning out all of the things she is going to need to do and they have barely scratched the surface of all of the necessary details to go over. There is still so much that needs to be done, but eventually, they have to call it a night. Laurel has her head resting on Dean's shoulder, Sam's eyelids are drooping and Dean's voice is hoarse and raspy. When Emma starts fussing in the bedroom, they all decide that enough is enough for now.

In the bedroom, Dean wrestles a sleepy, whimpering toddler out of her clothes and whisks her off to the bathroom to brush her teeth and change her diaper. Laurel briefly entertains the idea of asking him if he needs any help - because this is kind of going to be her life now, isn't it? - but she knows him well enough to know that he'll just say, ''no, you're tired, sweetheart, just go to sleep'' and wave her away, so she lets it go for tonight. She strips off her clothes and throws on a ratty old t-shirt (she honestly can't remember if it once belonged to Oliver or Dean), crawls into bed, slips under the covers...and proceeds to stare up at the ceiling restlessly. She's so tired she can barely think straight and yet she still can't sleep.

What is she doing? She has just agreed to raise somebody else's kid. What was she thinking? Life doesn't work this way. Life can't possibly work this way. And yet. She has just changed her life for a little girl. She has just agreed to make room in her insanely busy life to be a mom, and the part that freaks her out the most is that she doesn't regret it. Not even a little bit. She's petrified, yeah, of course she is, but there's also a part of her that is oddly excited. Is that crazy?

Laurel blows out a breath and rolls onto her side. She just needs to get some sleep. Things will make sense in the morning. She closes her eyes and tries to relax.

When she opens her eyes again, everything is quiet and dark. Baby Emma is fast asleep, nestled under the covers beside her. She is dressed in blue footie pajamas with cartoon monkeys on them, which is so adorable it hurts, and she's sucking on her thumb. Through her sleep encrusted eyes, Laurel manages to seek out the only source of light in the room. It's Dean. He's dressed for bed, wearing sweats and a t-shirt, but he is wide awake, sitting on top of the blankets, eyes unfocused but still staring intently at the screen of her laptop. She hears him sigh and watches him rub at his eyes with his palms, but he still doesn't budge. The light of the screen casts a sickly glow on his face, making him appear even more haggard than he already is.

Laurel pushes herself up, still bleary eyed and groggy. ''Dean?''

He jerks, startled, and nearly drops the computer. ''Laur,'' his voice is hoarse and the smile he gives her is fleeting and strange looking. ''Go back to sleep.''

''Are _you_ going to go to sleep?''

There is too long of a pause before he says, quietly, ''Yeah. Yeah, of course. Just... In a minute, okay?''

She doesn't believe him, but she says, ''Okay.'' She has never been good at _not_ enabling him. She can fix a lot of things in life and she can comfort a lot of broken people, but it's hard to comfort someone when you see so much of yourself - of all the broken parts of yourself - in them.

.

.

.

So.

Apparently Dean's not sleeping.

Just another thing to add to Laurel's growing 'Something Is Seriously Wrong Here' list.

.

.

.

_there is no clean way to enter  
__the heavy machinery of the heart.  
__just jagged cutthroat questions.  
_**mindy nettifee | this is the nonsense of love**

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.

The next morning, a Thursday, Laurel calls into work feigning food poisoning, which she feels ridiculously guilty about, and then calls her father and gives him the same lie, telling him that she is going to have her phone off all day long, but not to worry, which she also feels immensely guilty about.

The night was not as bad as she was expecting it to be. Emma woke up a few times, with gulping, sorrowful sobs, but as soon as Dean started rubbing her back and murmuring comforting words, she quieted down and burrowed herself into his chest. She is a frightened and standoffish girl, but she's a sweetheart. And she loves her daddy. Honestly, while Laurel is pretty worried about doing this without him, she has no idea how Emma is going to do this without him.

Dean hasn't gotten more than fifteen minutes of sleep, there is a tremor in his right hand that he keeps trying to hide by clenching his fist, and a falseness - no, a _wrongness_ to his smile. The conversations that he holds with Sam are stilted and uncomfortable. In the daylight, she can't help but notice how if Sam isn't glancing at Dean in obvious concern then the brothers aren't looking at each other at all.

Laurel thinks of Oliver. She thinks of _I don't sleep, I barely eat, I can't even sign my own name_, and watches Dean battle himself not to jump out of his skin when the toast pops out of the toaster.

The first day is spent holed up in her apartment. It's an introductory day. It's about Laurel getting to know Emma. It's about Emma learning to trust Laurel. Emma is still a little wary of everything that's happening, but slowly, throughout the course of the day, she begins to warm to Laurel. She is still clinging to Dean, a habit which Dean is trying to break in order to make his inevitable departure easier, but things are getting better. The day is a little awkward. Laurel won't lie and say it's perfect and fluffy. There is a learning curve. But progress is made, and Laurel learns a lot.

Emma loves her toys and she adores animated movies, like any kid. During the short amount of time they spent together, Kevin Tran taught her to high five and now it's her favourite thing to do, so, naturally, she does it over and over and over again, much to the chagrin of her father and uncle. She likes bright colors, but seems to gravitate towards pink and blue the most. She can't talk, but she loves to hear other people talk.

She is _extremely _protective of her father, so much so that whenever it even looks like Laurel might touch Dean, Emma gives her the stink eye. In an attempt to gain her trust, Laurel tells her stories. Most of them are slightly watered down stories about Emma's beloved daddy. Emma seems to like the stories Laurel tells her about Dean, especially the ones that make him smile, and eventually, she stops glaring daggers at the strange woman touching her daddy and doesn't even react when Dean kisses Laurel on the side of the head. _Progress._

Emma loves music and cheerios. She hates wearing shoes and having her diaper changed. She likes to draw with crayons, but she also likes to eat them. She likes when people sing along to the songs in her movies (Dean and Sam know all the words to all of the songs in Tangled, this is important information) even if she can't. She hates naptime unless Dean sings her Buddy Holly songs, which hurts in this strange, delicate sort of way because That'll Be the Day was the song Dinah Lance used to sing to her daughters when they were little.

Emma loves animals of all kinds, even rodents and reptiles, but can't stand bugs. According to Dean, she is completely willing to go up to strange and/or wild animals on the street, which is something Laurel is going to have to look out for, but will scream bloody murder if she sees a spider. She's kind of a germaphobe and can't handle having messy, sticky hands. Laurel is going to go ahead and blame that one on Dean. She is an avid climber. This is why Dean calls her ''monkey.'' She climbs the couch, she climbs the chairs, she climbs the bed, she climbs her uncle...

She has a beautiful smile. It is her father's smile.

Emma Winchester (soon to be Emma Lance) is a perfectly normal girl.

Most of the time.

Unfamiliar voices in the hallway of the apartment building have her pupils dilating and the skin around her eyes turning red. When a car backfires outside, she screeches in fear and dives behind Sam's leg, trembling and crying. Dean cooks dinner and when he accidentally cuts his finger, Emma hisses and snarls like she thinks she's his personal guard dog and won't let him put her down, face pressed to his throat like she's trying to make sure his pulse doesn't stop. She doesn't appear to exhibit any sort of super human strength (yet) or any other ''monster''-like attributes aside from the eye thing and some slightly animalistic responses to certain triggers, but she doesn't seem to have much control over these things, and that's the part that's worrying. That's the part that they're going to have to work on.

All in all, the first day goes pretty well. It's intense and at times downright scary, but Emma gives Laurel these cautious little smiles after dinner, while they're watching The Lion King, and that makes it absolutely worth it.

.

.

.

The second night is a little more difficult than the first.

Dean has a hard time getting Emma down for the night; the girl is wriggly and squirmy and seems to think her father's growing frustration is hilariously funny, so Laurel jumps in and tells Emma a story about Sara and how much she loved animals. How one day, when she was nine, she snuck a stray dog into the house after school and it took their parents over a week to figure out what was going on. Emma listens with rapt attention. Laurel isn't sure if Emma fully understands the story, but she certainly understands the word ''dog'' and that's enough to get her attention.

She does eventually fall into a relatively peaceful slumber, once again sandwiched in between Laurel and Dean, hair blowing in her face with each breath she lets out.

Dean does not.

He shrugs it off, tries to play it like he's too keyed up to sleep or too full of caffeine, but she's not an idiot. She can see the dark shadows under his eyes. Dean is _afraid_ to go to sleep. It's abundantly clear that he is suffering. It's also clear that he does not want to talk about his pain, or even acknowledge it. Laurel is torn. She is painfully aware that pushing the issue will probably only make things worse, and the last thing she wants to do is make this worse. But he's not sleeping. He's not sleeping, and he eats, but he does it mechanically, like he's only doing it because he knows people will question it if he doesn't. She's also pretty sure he's having flashbacks, judging from the few times she's seen him with a glazed over look in his eyes, entire body rigid.

Add all of that to his already pre-existing history of panic attacks...

He's _sick. _

He's been sick for years, riddled with anxiety, depression, addiction and PTSD, but it's even more evident now that he's not shoving it down with alcohol or self-medicating with whatever else he could get his hands on. He is not okay. He is far from it. But what is she supposed to do? What can she do?

It's _Dean. _The only thing that will happen is that she'll push him too hard and he'll shut down completely. Because he does that. They both do.

So when he tells her, ''You should get some sleep, Laur,'' after she's been awake for hours, lying on her side just watching him struggle, she hesitates because she doesn't want to leave him alone, but she goes to sleep.

.

.

.

_i am closing my eyes now.  
__you are far away.  
_**mikael de lara co | on the necessity of sadness**

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.

.

Here is a little known fact about Laurel Lance that she prefers to keep under wraps.

She does not just work at CNRI. She _is_ CNRI. After law school, she was offered a nice, cushy job at the DA's office. She almost took it. Until she found out that the only reason they were even considering hiring her was because her father had called in some favors. She did not take kindly to that. So she turned down the job, called Joanna, who did not have a cop dad and was having a hard time finding any work, and they worked their asses off to establish their very own legal aid office. It was tough work, but it was worth it. They built this place from the ground up and they did a damn fine job. They win cases. They help people.

But you tell people, especially rich older men, that two young women are running any sort of law office and you can forget about donations. All you'll get are sneers and rampant misogyny. Laurel and Joanna's blood, sweat and tears have made this place what it is, but you tell a man that and you get nothing. And that is precisely why she and Jo both prefer to let people believe that they are mere employees. It makes her feel a little dirty, to pretend to be less powerful than she is just so men will give her money, but the donors are the ones keeping the doors open and this is the world we live in. There are a lot of things Laurel is willing to do, to subject herself to, in order to help others.

Despite this, Laurel does love her job. She doesn't appreciate having to fight and scratch and claw just to greedily grasp the scraps men leave her, but she enjoys the job. She loves the work that she does, she loves the law, and she loves CNRI. Helping people, getting justice, working side by side with Joanna, rooting for the underdogs, it's amazing.

But she can't do both.

She can't work and raise Emma at the same time. It's just not feasible. And she recognizes this. It's why maternity leave exists. It's just hard. It's hard to imagine waking up in the mornings and not going into work. It's hard to imagine going any length of time without stepping foot in a courtroom. This job has been her life for years. It's going to be hard to quit cold turkey. She doesn't even get nine months to prepare.

Bright and early on Friday morning, armed with an extra large latte, Laurel heads into the office with conflicting feelings. Before she does anything at all, she has to tell Joanna. She's about to take an extended leave of absence and Jo will be left holding the reigns all alone. The least Laurel can do is offer her an apology and an explanation, or as much of one as she can give anyway.

In all honesty, she should probably tell her father first but she is absolutely dreading that particular conversation so she's going to postpone it for as long as she possibly can.

Fifteen minutes after walking in the door, after Laurel has signed for a delivery and been bombarded by at least five people needing help or advice, she finally manages to catch Joanna alone by the coffee machine. Jo is stirring coffee whitener into her coffee and humming Katy Perry under her breath. ''Morning, Jo,'' Laurel greets, offering her a small smile.

Joanna looks up from blowing on her coffee with a bright smile. ''Hey, good morning. How are you feeling?''

''Hmm? Oh, right. The - The food poisoning. I'm fine.'' Laurel fiddles with the silver locket around her neck. ''How was yesterday?''

''Oh, you know,'' Joanna shrugs and takes a sip of her coffee. ''The usual. Bethany's computer crashed so we had to call in the IT guy and he was distractingly pretty.''

Laurel laughs and reaches for the coffee pot to keep her hands busy, pouring herself a cup of fresh coffee even though she's already drank an extra large latte and feels jittery enough as it is. ''So, um, I kind of have to tell you something.''

''Sure. What's up, honey?''

Laurel isn't sure how to say it exactly, so she just kind of blurts it out, ''I'm filing for maternity leave today.''

Joanna's eyes widen in shock and her posture stiffens. For about a second. Then she's stealing the mug out of Laurel's hand, abandoning both coffees and pulling Laurel over to a corner far away from prying eyes and ears. ''I knew it,'' she hisses, looking oddly triumphant. ''I knew you didn't have food poisoning.''

''What? No - ''

''Please tell me it's not Oliver Queen's. Not that it would surprise me but he's _sooo_ not good enough for - ''

''Oh my god, no. No, no, no. _No_. So much no. Not ever.''

''Is it Dean? Oh my gosh,'' Joanna clasps her hands together like she's praying. ''Please let it be Dean. I miss him. He was such a sweetheart, and he loved you so much, Laurel.''

It's safe to say she had not expected a reaction like this. She had mostly expected shock and disbelief and maybe even a little panic over what to do with all of Laurel's cases. Jo seems almost...excited. Laurel isn't sure what her response to that should be. ''No, no, I'm not - Really?'' She stops and wrinkles her nose a little. ''A..._sweetheart? _You think Dean's a sweetheart?''

''Well, sure,'' Joanna shrugs and blinks innocently. ''Whenever he came by while we were working late, he would always walk me to my car. He opened doors for me. One time, we bumped into each other at a coffee place and he bought my coffee. We talked about Star Trek, Laurel. We bonded.''

''...I honestly don't know what to do with that.''

''Star Trek is an important bonding process for me,'' Joanna says. ''When I met you and realized you didn't know the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek, it was almost a dealbreaker for me. Luckily, you're far too cute and awesome to not have in my life.''

''And I thank you for that,'' Laurel laughs, ''but, uh, I'm not pregnant. And this - It doesn't have anything to do with Dean. He's still..'' She falters, licking her lips nervously. ''That's over.''

Joanna tilts her head to the side. ''Then the maternity leave is because...?''

''I'm adopting,'' Laurel says. ''I've adopted, actually. A little girl. Her name's Emma.''

Joanna stares at her, seemingly waiting for the punchline. ''I...'' Her forehead wrinkles in confusion. ''Am I being Punk'd?''

All things considered, Joanna takes the news pretty well. Laurel tells her that she's been planning this for a while, but that she was afraid to say anything because she didn't want to jix it. Adoptions fall through all the time. Joanna does seem to be mildly hurt that Laurel didn't say anything, but she understands better than anyone that adoptions can be fragile things. Her brother and sister-in-law have been trying to adopt for years. Laurel feels like dirt, using Jo's knowledge of how fickle adoptions can be just to get her to believe her lie. Jo is so supportive. She offers to babysit anytime and she is quick to assure Laurel that CNRI will be fine and that she can handle it. Alice has been ripe for promotion for a while now and they have plenty of other qualified (over qualified in some cases) staff members.

It's the first time that Laurel realizes how hard it is going to be to lie to her friends and family. Sure, she knew it would be hard to get them to believe her lies, she just didn't realize how badly it would hurt. It's for their own good, she knows this. And she has to protect Emma. But that doesn't make it any easier.

Joanna's great.

She's still reeling, that much Laurel can tell, but she's supportive and that's what matters.

.

.

.

She cannot say the same for her father.

.

.

.

_i can't get out of what i'm into with you  
_**grizzly bear | all we ask**

.

.

.

**end part one**

* * *

**AN: So...**

**Other tags that should be on this fic: Literal Superhero Dean Winchester, Single Moms are more badass than any superhero ever could be, Laurel Lance for Queen of Starling City.**

**And now for the BIG obnoxious note.**

**First of all, I am unbelievably excited to be writing this. This story means a lot to me because the characters of Dean Winchester and Laurel Lance mean a lot to and they both deserve so much more than the writers are giving them. I am a fixer. I like fixing things. And Supernatural and Arrow? Currently need a lot of fixing. SPN and Arrow, quite frankly, treat the characters of Dean and Laurel - two characters who are very much alike and who are extremely relatable, at least for me personally, what with their mental health issues, the Burden of Being an Older Sibling and their stubbornness - like dirt and it's not okay. The way the other characters treat them, take them for granted and abuse them and just expect them to take it is not okay. You do not treat people the way Oliver, Quentin, Sam and Castiel treat Dean and Laurel. This story is about fixing that.**

**And yeah, this is also about fixing the way things ended for the character of Emma on Supernatural. Because that bullshit was also NOT OKAY.**

**With that said, I do feel like I should warn you that while I do consider this a fix-it fic for a lot of reasons, it's not always going to be pretty. It's actually sort of going to be NOT pretty in a lot of ways. This story is about Laurel finding her way to her destiny as Black Canary, a hero, and realizing that you don't actually need to be deserted on an island for five years in order to find a reason to be a hero, which the Arrow writers cannot seem to grasp. This story is about Dean realizing that he is more than ''daddy's blunt little instrument,'' more than Sam's brother, and is, in fact, a person, which the SPN writers refuse to acknowledge. But, despite this, it is not going to be a totally happy story. There will be fluffy times, of course. Fluff is important. This is a kid fic, for goodness sake. But there will be dark times ahead. Bad shit WILL happen. Angst WILL happen.**

**Also, this story is going to get long, folks. I will admit right away that it is probably going to be updated slowly (maaaaybe once a month) because I don't want the chapters to be short and filler, I want them to be long and plotty - and when I say long, I mean loooong - and also because I am perfectionist. So this may take some time. All I ask for is patience and understanding when it comes to the slow updates.**

**Buckle up, guys! It's going to be a bumpy ride!**


End file.
